


When Black Befalls the Night

by VeronicaRune



Category: Thunderbirds, Thunderbirds (TV Show), thunderbirds are go
Genre: Espionage, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-04
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-06-06 09:27:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6748276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VeronicaRune/pseuds/VeronicaRune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story of the kind of trouble that can occur when a Lady wears black lace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Black Befalls the Night

Lace is her weapon of choice, and it works best when it is black. Like a sword must be sharpened before battle and a gun must be loaded before fire, lace must be black if it is at all meant to be fatal, for ambassadors' sons do not crumble at the sight of white stockings. Reporters will not compromise their sources for a glimpse at pink. For as long as secrets have have been kept, information has grown through humanity's darkest shadows, vining its way up and around the throats of men with black suits, black ties, and little black cards in their little black wallets. It is not just the color of the night. It is also the color of advantage.

Not to mention that it feels better, somehow. She's aware that white and pink and black—they are all made the same way, certainly, but  _black_.  There simply is no comparison. How could any other color meet the sheer strength that comes with tall dark heels, clicking across marble floors? How could Roy G. Biv hold up to the sort of strike that is left behind in his absence? Black is the neglect of color.  It is the silence of sight. It is invisible while at the same time undeniably present and it is the very reason she loves this line of work. No one expects her to look as good in black as she does. "I'm sorry, Mr. President.  It's just—"

She bites her lip and glances down at her shoes in a fit of bashfulness that is so uncharacteristic to her, one might even suggest she was putting on a show. "Lady Penelope?" he prompts.

She looks back up at him, right on cue. His clothes are wrinkled and he looks like he's spent one too many late nights at the office, but even so. This isn't the worst client she's had. Not by a long shot. He smiles real easy and his hair is just starting to grey at the temples. He leans up against the front of his desk like he deserves to be the president of a massively influential technological corporation at age forty-four, and with his sleeves rolled up like that she might even find the evening bearable. "It's really quite embarrassing," she says. "You'll have to forgive me. It's not typical of me to be so easily flustered."

"Flustered," he repeats.  There goes that smile again, as confident as he looks on the home page of his company's website. It is possible that he shouldn't actually be so confident, seeing as she hacked that very same website this afternoon. He could use a better security consultant. "How so?"

She crosses her leg, and she doesn't miss his glance. It's subtle and quick, but it's there. It's always there. They simply can't resist it—the sight of soft black lace pulled over soft white skin. It is too much for them to handle, thinking of all the wonders they might see if only she were to pull her skirt just a bit higher. There's a twinkle in his eye that tells her it's been too long. All the better. At least he'll be quick about it. "I'm afraid that if I say it, it will sound far too cheesy."

"Nonsense," he says. "Go on."

"I really mustn't."

"Come now, Penelope."

It always amazes her how quickly they drop the Lady. "It's only that no one warned me you would be more handsome in person, is all."

The man before her makes his living on defying the norm and making brilliantly grand achievements that no one even imagined were possible, but in the end he is the same as the rest of them. He cannot resist her words and he cannot resist his own ego. He cannot resist the black lace. The lights of the skyline twinkle like stars outside his window and Penelope tries her hardest to find romance in his next words. "Is that right?"

"You see," she says, starting to stand. "Now I've told you and now I feel silly. I should go. Thank you for your time, Mr. President, but I'm afraid—"

"Wait." He has a hand around her wrist now, a quarter-million dollars worth of jewelry dangling between them as the sapphires in his eyes meet hers. There's another glance, this time touching all of her, every last inch, before he's back, and he's smitten, and he's begging. "Stay."

She takes a moment to settle an internal debate that doesn't exist. "I couldn't."

"You could," he says. He inches closer, trying to unravel her with little more than a look. If she were a different sort of woman, it might work. "The party's downstairs. No one would know."

"Mr. President, I—"

"Stay," he says once more. He tucks a stray strand of hair just behind her ear and lets the word fall onto her skin, a single breath rolling straight over her shoulder.  Despite her best efforts, the goosebumps are real, and there's a bit of a hitch where there shouldn't be.  "Stay with me."

Well. If you insist.

Her hands wander their way to his hips, fingers slipping just past his belt to leave goosebumps of her own. It's the only excuse he needs to start leaving a trail of kisses, neck, neck, jaw until he's finally at her lips. It's always fun to see which of the magazines' most eligible bachelors can actually kiss as well as they claim. This is one of the better experiences. She doesn't lose herself, but it's easy to think of all the ways she could. He has a dozen different tastes on his tongue, each one as elegant as the last—champagne, filet mignon, crème brûlée. He moves like a millionaire, but wealthier, kisses with the confidence of a prince, but more powerfully, and when she jumps up into his arms, legs wrapped around his hips, he carries her as if she's a feather, but lighter.

Fists twist in the fabric of his shoulders as she waits for his sigh. That's how she knows she's lost him, when he closes his eyes and pulls her in closer, closer, impossibly close. That's how she knows its time to unzip and give the president even more black lace to work with. He's got her on the desk now—they always dream about the desk—and his hands are frantic at her back. Amazing how not even CEOs can get the job done without an assist. No matter. She guides his hands and lets the black lace fall. The president leaves stardust on her skin. It could be bliss.

All the while, she has a flash drive—tiny little thing that fits in all sorts of places, and the president is so far gone that he doesn't notice her fitting it straight into his computer.

It's instantaneous, the way her code fingers its way through his hard drive. While she's busy with the president, her code will undresses his encryption straight down to its skin, leaving him exposed. Bare. Willing to bend to her every demand. It's enthralling to think that soon he will be hers, wholly and undeniably hers, as she ghosts across his most sensitive information. Emails to the CFO, new designs for the next big release, every last bit of code that his company won't release to the public—it's intoxicating. It's the best part of her job. It's the ultimate kiss and tell, and her excitement rises, second by second, breath by breath. She could almost scream.

The little red light flashes to green and she melts into satisfaction. The president runs his course, oblivious, like they all are, to the things that a Lady truly lusts for. She retrieves her lace, zips herself back up, and leaves with the sort of polite goodbye that removes her from any current or future suspicion he may have about her motives. 

And then, much like her code, Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward disappears without a trace.


End file.
